Broken Links
by Raidho
Summary: A series of short works centering around Fereldan Warden-Commander Cadryn Amell, ups and downs of life, love, and becoming a living legend.
1. A Stroke of Luck

Herein is a collection of short stories involving the same Warden as "Chains" and "Nations and Ages". I'll be adding to this slowly, as thoughts strike me.

* * *

These first two chapters go together, and are part of a failed attempt to complete a song meme.

* * *

Everyone wanted something. He just had to figure out what it was.

"Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?"

Confusion he expected, but the not quite derisive snort, the furrowing of the Warden's brow in agitation... For a moment, Zevran feared he'd made a misstep, a miscalculation.

"You don't have to do this," the Warden told him. "You're not a piece of meat, here."

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Zevran said, trying to recover gracefully. The Warden just stared at him for a moment, incredulity and agitation in his expression, and something else Zevran couldn't quite pin down in those intense green eyes. And then he walked away.

But he kept coming back, kept listening to Zevran's stories with a neutral expression, any judgments passing unsaid. And when Zevran asked about his place in the future, because he was growing quite desperate, frightened about gaining better purchase in the Warden's good graces, the Warden sighed, rubbed one hand over his face, exasperated. Recovered from the gesture, he looked down, somewhere between them, then smirked, before meeting Zevran's eyes.

"After I ravish you in celebration?"

A week later he found himself intimately entangled with the Warden, nothing more than warm breath and soft cries between them, no need for these cumbersome words. And it was unexpected, somewhat, a confusing and pleasant surprise. Others competed for his affection, Morrigan and Leliana shooting each other silent glares when the Warden wasn't looking, and Zevran had given up on that angle until that unexpected response, that cheeky answer to a very serious question.

That night he saw beyond the confidence, beyond the mask that was the Warden. _Cadryn_ was frightened, out of his element, barely an adult and uncertain. But no one wanted to hear that. It would undermine his leadership in their group, would only dismay their allies. All these things Zevran saw in the nervous and eager trembling of a virgin, in Cadryn's obvious need to seem competent. And he was observant, attentive, learned quickly. More confusing than Cadryn's sudden interest in him physically was that the man placed himself in so vulnerable a position. Zevran had, after all, tried to kill him, and while Zevran hoped he'd proven his loyalty since, that didn't account for how much of the man behind the Warden's mask he revealed in those impassioned hours.

Zevran expected no more than this one night between them, but he longed for it. It gave him some purchase, some ground to stand on with the others, and he needed more. In another week the Warden made a regular habit of this, ending every night tangled in his arms, and as he grew more confident they became nearer to equals in this.

And on a night while they wandered out of the Brecilian Forest, Cadryn snatched up his wrist as Leliana prepared for the first watch, heedless of who saw them, and led him to the tent. As usual, Cadryn was gently dominant, something Zevran had come to expect from all humans, but things quickly spiraled out of Zevran's control that night, and just how far he realized when Cadryn's head dipped low, lips running down his length-

That night Cadryn, devious creature and quick study, made him feel _wanted_, _worshiped_, in more than a physical sense, because the human responded to physical cues with all haste, and asked nothing in return. By the time he was well and truly spent (at least twice over) and they lay in the darkness of the tent, Zevran on his back and staring up at the other man in confusion, Cadryn on one side, head propped in the crook of his arm, other arm draped across Zevran's midsection, Zevran was convinced this was some subtler form of control.

But Cadryn anticipated that line of thought. "I need nothing from you in return. Your pleasure is enough."

That night meant something, was supposed to be a message, but Zevran had yet to unravel it. And he expected at the core of this mystery he would find out what the Warden wanted from him.

* * *

The relevant lyrics are from Garbage's "A Stroke of Luck":

_You say that you'll be there to catch me  
Or will you only try to trap me  
These are the rules I make  
Our chains were meant to break  
You'll never change me_

_..._

_Stroke of luck or a gift from God?  
Hand of fate or devil's claws?  
From below or saints above?  
You come to me now _


	2. Undisclosed Desires

Again, this is paired to the first chapter. Subsequent chapters are not necessarily related or in any recognizable order. This is just much cleaner and neater than dumping all my short work in separate pieces.

* * *

He's a particularly nasty thorn, deeply buried, twisting down through sensitive flesh. No one should speak of tragedy with such mirth in his eyes, no one should have that undercurrent of pain and fear. He thinks his mask if perfect, but I see him flinch from the others, I see the instability under his overconfident stories. And I begin to suspect he hides it even from himself.

And I don't want to give in. Maker, is he amazing, the way he carries himself, the way he moves, that laugh, when he means it—but I don't want to take advantage. He's offered himself after a fashion, but he does it as a form of repayment, I think. He's the one good thing I have in all this darkness, the one point of brightness, the only person here who doesn't care so much about the Blight—well, excepting the mabari. His advice is sound, and whenever I've grown too absorbed in the darkness he taunts one of our companions or offers me some amusing anecdote.

I don't know if I should even try to fix him. Would it be wrong of me? Should he stay broken? Is he really broken, or am I simply misinterpreting his life? I've had my fair share of pain, but not like him. I don't think I have a frame of reference to judge properly from.

So I turn him down. I pretend I'm not charmed by his shameless flirting, by his sharp wit and his quick tongue. Best to keep my distance, and figure him out first. At least, until he asks, so frankly, so vulnerably, where he stands.

So I say something dumb. I hate seeing him upset, and respond as he would. I let him see just a little of what I feel, even in a joke, and in his surprised reaction I worry that I've done the wrong thing.

I begin to understand that, yes, he is broken, but not the way I thought. The pain and fear are real, but the mirth and the irreverence don't simply cover it up. He's learned to make the best of life, in spite of everything that's happened to him, but he is convinced he is alone against the world. I have been wrong, robbing him of confidence, of something he thinks will help him gain better control over his situation. So I try not to seem like I'm taking advantage of him, but I'm a little forceful when I ask.

He seems better, afterward. Like he thinks he has a claw in me. I'll let him dig all his little Crow talons in if it stabilizes him. But I need him to understand... there is more to this. I ask no commitment, because that's not what I mean. I just need him to know its not about the physical release, not with me. He's not a thing to be used, more than just a warm and willing body.

So as soon as I think I'm able, I give him what he gives me, this total attention. And, painful as it is, I deny myself release at the end. He doesn't understand, and I don't know how to explain without using words he'll misinterpret, words that will chase him away. This isn't love. This is...

Clearly, we've both know pain, and we've both been trapped in beautiful cages most of our lives. There's so much common ground between us that I feel I've known him for years already, and I want to show him something genuine. Something true. He deserves one beautiful thing in his wretched life, and while I'm not pretentious enough to think I'll be that thing, I can maybe help open his eyes for when it comes.

And as we leave the surface world behind, the way he looks at me changes, the tone in his voice when we speak... I think he's beginning to understand. And I need to stop fooling myself.

* * *

The relevant lyrics are from Muse's "Undisclosed Desires":

_I want to reconcile the violence in your heart  
I want to recognize your beauty's not just a mask  
I want to exorcise the demons from your past  
I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart_

_You trick your lovers  
That you're wicked and divine  
You may be a sinner  
But your innocence is mine _


	3. First Day

Cadryn's arrival at the Circle Tower is less than ideal, and his Templar guardians come to realize the child's scars are more than skin deep. Deals with themes of child abuse.

* * *

Being late Autumn, a heavy mist hung over Lake Calenhad, and the Circle Tower rose out of it as they approached, almost seeming to spring forth suddenly, a massive gray stone edifice, looming. Craning his head back to take the whole thing in, from the broken bridge up to the tallest spires, Cadryn's jaw hung slack, awestruck and afraid again. The Tower was beautiful in a frightening way, one that made him want to run back to Denerim, or maybe see if the Dalish would tolerate a shem living nearby—but he didn't think Shianni and Soris' "honorary elf" speech would hold much weight.

A gauntlet clad hand on his shoulder startled Cadryn, and he flinched, hunched forward and glanced over his shoulder. He didn't understand the look on Aduran's face, and wouldn't until much later, but it cleared quickly. Only two of the squad of Templars had made the crossing, the other two probably following later, a young woman in the prow of the boat with a hard face scarred across one cheek by a burn, fierce brown eyes, made shapeless by her Templar armor. Lystra, her name, and despite her appearance she told the best stories of anyone Cadryn had met, didn't treat him like a child at all, or like a thing to be feared. Aduran sat behind him, the squad's leader, graceful face (aside from his crooked nose) marked with laugh lines, his age just starting to show, thick brown hair marked by fine strands of silver, but the thin beard he wore was still dark.

They weren't what he expected of Templars, but he was still afraid of them. He'd heard too many stories in the Alienage from his apostate friend, about people who had disappeared over the years, sometimes messily. The elf had spared no details because he wanted Cadryn to understand, to fear, to _never_ let _exactly this_ happen. Death probably awaited him in those halls, or something worse, and for a moment he thought about jumping out of the boat. Aduran would just fish him out of the water, though, and even if he got away he didn't know how to swim.

The boat pulled up to a small dock, and Lystra jumped nimbly out of the boat, turned to offer Cadryn a hand up. He hesitated, so she gave him a lazy grin. "Well? Come on. They'll have dinner waiting for us."

He took her hand, and stepped out of the boat, but he was still shaking, still afraid. He trusted Aduran and Lystra, sort of, but these other people, these strangers in their tower, all he had were the stories. She held his hand as they entered, Cadryn still gaping at the sheer _size_ of the building, trying hard to listen to the conversation going on over his head between the Templars in the entry hall and _his_ Templars (because Cadryn couldn't help thinking of them as _his_). Most of these Templars wore their helmets, voices ringing hollow and metallic out of them, the sound making him flinch. Lystra gave his hand a gentle squeeze, very careful about not hurting him with her gauntlet, and Cadryn tried to be brave. He couldn't cry in front of strangers.

They were done talking, and Cadryn had been too busy trying to keep himself together to follow what anyone said. When Lystra knelt in front of him he knew what was coming, and the shaking came back. She smiled gently, her scar pulling into a funny shape, and she gripped him by the shoulders. "Aduran will be going with you for a little while," she said. "But I'm staying behind. You be good, alright?" Cadryn just nodded, had trouble looking at her because he didn't want to _see_ her leave. She kissed him on the forehead, and he would've blushed if he weren't so frightened.

Aduran led him off with a hand on his shoulder, and a tall lady in blue robes with a tight, pinched face met them just inside the next room. Looking down at Cadryn she wrinkled up her nose. "Little bugger could use a good scrubbing. Is this the one from Denerim?"

"Yes," Aduran said. "And I know you all normally have Tranquil do these sorts of things, but this is a rather _delicate_ situation. I think it would frighten him."

"One of _those_," she said, sudden understanding in her words, and a tone Cadryn' didn't understand. It wasn't mean, just made him angry, made him shake a little harder because he felt like a _thing_ under her gaze. And now she was all smiles, leaning down with her hands on her knees to come to his height, the bun of dark hair on the back of her head bobbing dangerously, like it might come forward. "I'm Aleeno. What's your name?"

Cadryn glanced up to Aduran, who nodded, so he told her, "Cadryn." His voice was softer and less steady than he'd like.

"Well, Cadryn, we've got just enough time to get you cleaned up and show you where you'll be sleeping before dinner. We might even have a chance to introduce you to some of the other apprentices along the way. How does that sound?"

All her false cheer only made the woman scary, and Cadryn looked up for some sign from Aduran again before saying, "Fine. That sounds fine."

He got lost following her down the halls, Aduran still just behind him the entire time, and they ended up in a big room full of beds stacked two together. There were more people here, all in robes, some his age, some older, a very few younger, and many of them stared openly at the auburn-haired boy in his filthy rags, skin just a few shades off golden and tanned from weeks on the road. _Is he foreign?_ the apprentices asked with their eyes, and whispered behind screening hands. Then they passed through to a washroom, where Aleeno shooed people away, except for a couple of apprentices she ordered to assist her in drawing up a bath.

Cadryn had never had a hot bath before, so that was novel, and he carefully sniffed the soaps before using them, wrinkling his nose because they smelled girly, but he was too concerned about Aleeno gathering up his clothes and making off with them to pay much mind to either of these things. Everything he owned the woman had just carried off, and he had to guess from her disgusted look she'd be throwing it away.

A faint ringing sound, metal on metal, rhythmic, told him that Aduran was just around the corner. Aduran started doing it when escorting Cadryn somewhere that required privacy, tapping the fingers of his gauntlet on the outside of one thigh to make noise, to let Cadryn know that he was still nearby. At first it was frightening, because Cadryn had too many bad memories associated with the sound of steel on steel, and it meant the Templar was _watching_, that he couldn't possibly get away. Cadryn wasn't sure when the sound had become reassuring, but now it was. And it made him really _realize_ for the first time that Lystra wasn't just leaving him at the door, and that Aduran wouldn't be staying. Dunking his head, Cadryn stayed under until his lungs hurt, because it made not crying easier. _Maybe I could run away_.

By the time he'd scrubbed himself raw Aleeno was back with a bundle of clothes. She helped him tug everything on with a perfectly impassive expression, and picked at the shoulders once he had the robes on. "Was your father very tall?"

Cadryn just nodded, and watched her hands as she knelt and started tacking the hem of the robes up. The needle flashing in and out of the dark fabric, glinting in warm lamplight, was too much like the flash of fresh steel in a lit forge, and he had to look away. "I'm sure you'll catch up in no time. These robes are for an apprentice at least two years older."

When she was done she led him over to a bunk that looked long abandoned, freshly made by the creasing of the sheets. Aduran sat him down, and shot Aleeno a look that sent her away fighting back a scowl. "Are you alright?" Nodding, Cadryn tried to look away like he had with Lystra, hoping that if he didn't _watch_ Aduran leave he could pretend it never happened, that he was just gone for a little while. "They'll take care of you here," the Templar said, voice gentle, and Cadryn noticed for the first time how much space the mages were giving them, the looks they were shooting at the Templar while his attention was focused on the newest apprentice. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Cadryn didn't say anything, throat too tight, even when someone came to take fill a pretty little glass vial with some of his blood, through which Aduran silently held his hand.

He got through dinner without Aduran, and in one piece. The food looked surprisingly good, and he was very hungry, but he was too nervous, and after a few moments of silence the apprentices who filled in the benches around him started asking questions.

"Are you foreign? Are you Rivaini?"

"No, stupid, he's Antivan."

"You're _both _stupid. He has reddish hair, he's from one of the old tribes."

"Your _face_ is stupid."

"I'm from Denerim," were the first words Cadryn had managed in at least an hour. They all stared, surprised at how soft his voice was, one of the girls ducking her head and peering at him with narrowed eyes, trying to make eye contact while he kept his head down. She got uncomfortably close, so he leaned away and finally looked up at her, unsure how he should react.

"What's _wrong_ with you?"

He didn't know what to stay, just stared back, and they went back to their own chatter after a moment, left him alone.

Of the apprentices in his age group Cadryn was tallest, looking down on all of them, sticking out self-consciously over the crowd with his auburn hair and darker-than-most (but not everyone, he'd seen a few older apprentices who looked more like himself) skin as they shuffled out and filed into the Tower's Chantry. Cadryn had never _been_ to a Chantry, his mother and father had taught him the Chant. The Chantry was underwhelming, with its hard benches and looming statues, if anything a little frightening.

Once they'd all settled in a little giggle passed over one side of the room as a pair of chanters stepped up to the book laid out at the front of the room. Silence, then the older Chanter spoke, voice booming, filling the room so thoroughly no sound or thought other than the chant could survive. Only two things existed: the Chant in this powerful voice, and the swift motions of the younger Chanter flipping pages diligent even though the older Chanter never looked down at the book in front of him.

They were verses Cadryn knew well, and he found himself mouthing along, caught up in the sound and the shape of the words, in the memories they evoked.

"Above them, a river of Light, Before them the throne of Heaven, waiting, Beneath their feet The footprints of the Maker, And all around them echoed a vast Silence." Here the Chanter paused, looking out over the group of apprentices, and everyone seemed to hold that vast silence within him or herself for a moment.

"But when they took a single step Toward the empty throne A great voice cried out Shaking the very foundations Of Heaven and earth:" Cadryn hunkered down, clenching his teeth in anticipation of the first blow. "And So is the Golden City blackened," because each line was punctuated with a strike, "With each step you take in my Hall." From a leather strap or a belt or an iron rod, "Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting." Blows that didn't come for once, but felt all the same, left him cringing and shaking and crying, sick with anticipation because _it had to happen_, it always did. "You have brought Sin to Heaven" Louder, he had to say it _louder_, loud enough that the Maker would hear him and forgive him, forgive his _parents_ for bringing a mage child into being, "And doom upon all the-"

The Chanter continued, unperturbed, but Cadryn suddenly found himself being lifted up off the bench by a Templar, unable to find his breath when the Templar shifted to carry him out because it was hard to be gentle _and_ hurry in plate mail. He couldn't choke out any more of the verses, crying too hard, but he dimly registered Aduran's voice just above in his ear, Aduran talking to another Templar, then carrying him up a flight of stairs and around the winding Tower halls, dizzying, but out of earshot of the Chantry.

"Cadryn?" the Templar ventured, and Cadryn just nodded. "Are you alright? What happened?"

Words weren't working, so he spurted out the closest thing he could to an answer, "Those who had once been mage-lords, The brightest of their age, Were no longer men, but monsters," because the Chant was always on hand.

"What do you mean?"

"Let all repeat the Chant of Light. Only the Word dispels the darkness upon us." It was his mother's favorite saying.

Aduran shifted his hold on Cadryn, for some reason not letting go but instead settling Cadryn across his hip so the boy could support some of his own weight. "How much of the Chant do you know?"

"All of it," wasn't too hard to choke out.

"Maker," Aduran swore, and he sounded like he wanted to say more, but didn't. He finally sat Cadryn down, and they were back in the room with the bunks, alone. Cadryn sat down on the bed he'd been shown to earlier, and Aduran sat next to him, plate mail creaking with the awkward motion. "I promise you, no one will hurt you here."

"Why?" His voice broke, trying not to sob, and he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his new robe. "Why won't they? How—how would you know? You won't," he had to swallow to speak any further, "you won't be here."

"Normal people don't hurt each other for no reason," Aduran told him, voice quiet, but tense with a barely restrained anger, something Cadryn couldn't realize through his tears. "And being a mage is _no reason_. Being a mage doesn't mean anything is wrong with you, doesn't make you _evil_. It's a gift—the Chant says so. You decide what kind of person you are." When the boy nodded, indicating he heard but wasn't really _listening_, Aduran put an arm around his shoulders to get his attention. "Do you trust me?"

Just sniffling now, Cadryn looked up at him, blinked as if he didn't understand, so Aduran repeated himself. After a long, drawn out moment the boy said, "Yes," slowly.

"I wouldn't leave you somewhere that I thought you'd be hurt," Aduran said. "I'd hide you away myself first. And I know a thing or two about how mages hide. They'll teach you how to use your magic here, and other things. So would you give it a try, at least? For me?"

Again the boy just nodded, but this time he was paying attention, leery of eye contact but alert around his drying tears. "But I don't want to go back to the Chantry again."

"Agreed," Aduran said. "You can find the Maker elsewhere, not solely in the words of the Chant. I'll see what I can do." With a little squeeze around Cadryn's shoulders, Aduran continued. "We won't be leaving for a few days. I promise I'll visit you whenever we're near, and I'll write you when I can't. That way, if anyone _does_ try to hurt you, I'll hear about it. And you can tell me all about what you've learned. Agreed?"

"Agreed." For Cadryn, it made the prospect of staying here somewhat less scary. For Aduran, it was the beginning of parting from a boy he'd almost called 'son' several times over the past few weeks, a bittersweet reminder of what he'd sacrificed as a Templar.


	4. Golden Hour

The next few chapters, "Golden Hour", "Dark Hours", and "Rhythm" go together.

* * *

Faint, golden morning sun cast sylvan shadows across the canvas, filled the tent with a soft light, a sense of stillness and peace. Cadryn yet slept, lying on his back, and the sun laid strange shadows against his skin, but he looked at peace. And young, like this—Zevran wondered idly how old the mage was, then dismissed it as irrelevant. By the sounds of morning on the edge of the Brecilian Forest, it would be at least another half hour before Sten—last night's last watch—roused camp, as it wasn't quite light enough out to move safely through the forest's edge.

Things had been different since they'd left Orzammar. Though the two of them had almost no privacy in the Deep Roads or since, it had somehow drawn them closer together. Unable to resort to sex to communicate his growing regard and to reason it away, Zevran had to resort to other means, to communicate it as Cadryn did with words and glances and careful touches. It was all so very strange, so alien and a little _wrong_, but he was beginning to like it. So soft a manner seemed weak, but it was also _forbidden _in Zevran's upbringing, and that held a certain appeal. It was a fun thing to toy with, a new and novel thing to try out.

But they were some time out of Orzammar, on their way to Denerim for the Landsmeet, and the novelty wasn't wearing off. Clearly, because Zevran rolled onto his side, propped his head up with one arm, and watched Cadryn sleep in these quiet, early hours, feeling wistful and smiling softly.

It was wrong.

And he liked it, frightening as it was. Whatever stood between them had gone well beyond the physical, and done so before Zevran realized it. Now he was stuck, afraid, wanting to run, but too caught up in it to leave. So he did foolish, weak little things like watching the shadows shift across Cadryn's skin, splaying a hand against the man's chest to feel his heartbeat, the soft rise and fall of his breathing, to take in the difference in their skin tones—Cadryn was dark for a Fereldan, but not nearly so dark as Zevran, and the contrast still caught his eye even after months in the mage's company—and how strangely small his hand looked against the man's chest, far from weak, but small all the same. And in moments like this, or sitting silently on watch together, or in the darkness of the night when they slaked their lust on each other, Zevran would realize, quietly, and fear it for a moment, that he had never felt more at peace. Here he began to feel whole again.

They needed each other. That much he could admit to himself. Cadryn was strong, but as a mage he was too detached from the real world. He was very practical, grounded, and he understood people and got along fine on his own, but he had few attachments to existence at all, within or without the Tower. Zevran... wasn't ready to name his fears yet, but he could at least admit that Cadryn gave him reason, a new direction, and it wasn't something so trite as "saving the world". The man made him want to _live_.

Tonight, Zevran resolved, he would finally tell Cadryn about Rinna, so the man understood exactly what he was getting into. And he would understand why Zevran _couldn't_ name his fears and put them aside, would listen with that neutral look on his face, nodding and prompting when appropriate. And surely they would tumble into their bedrolls together, forget all their troubles for a few moments in each other's flesh, and in the dark after Cadryn would hold him and whisper something beautiful that made him feel _wanted_. And maybe, if it overwhelmed him enough, they would go at it again, if only because Zevran couldn't say such things in return, that the only way he could express his gratitude and—and-_affection_ would be to wring a desperate cry from the man, to take him to exhaustion. Silver-tongued as he was, Zevran wasn't good at sincerity, and any beautiful words in return stuck in his throat, so he had to speak with his body.

The smile lingered when green eyes opened to the barest of slits, Cadryn making a strange, sleepy noise. Zevran didn't mind him seeing this weakness, the stupid grin or the amusement Zevran got from watching Cadryn wake. When he wasn't plagued with taint-induced nightmares the man was a deep sleeper, always woke groggy and disoriented. It was entertaining and endearing, for some reason, little moments of reality shared only with Zevran, small things that broke the illusion of the Warden, even if it was infuriating for safety reasons. "Zev?" he croaked. "How long...?" But he trailed off, eyelids drooping shut.

Zevran laid a kiss on the man's forehead, moving the hand on his chest to an arm to squeeze insistently. "No more sleep, my dear Warden. We are too near to breaking camp."

The mage made a disappointed noise, a harsh note, somewhere in his throat, and curled into Zevran. Chuckling softly, Zevran wrapped an arm around him, allowing him that moment.

Zevran was quickly deciding they'd both had too few such moments in their lives, and much as the need frightened him, Zevran couldn't help but claim as many as they could get.


	5. Dark Hours

_...and the song, always the song, irresistible, melody of beauty most divine, __**join us**__ in the deep places, __**join us**__ in the peace surrender no more fear no more pain no more responsibility no more accountability no more thought only the next chorus forward ever forward, __**join us**__ and we will make beauty thrive once again, the song strumming running thrumming sweetly through his soul-_

Gasping for a lungful of cool air, clutching at an intangible ache in his chest, Cadryn sat up abruptly, surfacing violently from the nightmare. They grew more and more abstract, but closer and closer to something he could understand instead of images. That was, perhaps, more frightening than anything, the thought that he was growing closer and closer to understanding the Archdemon's sweet song...

Throwing back the covers, cool air chilled sweat-slicked skin, and as his bare feet hit the floor Cadryn began cursing that very air he had been blessing a moment before. Cassius, curled on the foot of the bed, looked up at him, whining sleepily, before settling back down. Cadryn shambled over to the washbasin, filled it enough to dunk his entire head in, and the shock of icy water drove some of the nightmare from him. Whether he was shaking from cold or lingering fear, Cadryn didn't want to dwell on it, and he knew he'd get no more sleep tonight. So he dressed, and left the room.

Taking the high road to Redcliffe after the Landsmeet, they'd stopped at the Circle Tower to spend a night off the cold ground. While most of his companions were sharing rooms, Irving had insisted that Cadryn have his own. That it was the same guest quarters Duncan had been assigned lingered in the back of his mind, but this, like the fear, he tried to ignore.

Once warm and full of life, as a cage full of beautiful birds is full of song, now the halls echoed cold and silent. Everything had been cleaned up, but once Cadryn would've been dodging apprentices sneaking around after curfew and the sleepy Templars assigned to night duty pretending not to see them—an informal agreement, that some of the apprentices slipped by unnoticed, and none of the apprentices said anything if they saw a Templar asleep on watch. For the first time in memory, he walked these halls without meeting a single soul, and ended up in the library alone.

Cadryn had to try twice to light the candles in the appropriate section, as he had no affinity for fire and would honestly rather strike it in mundane fashion, but eventually got enough light to search out certain tomes and distract himself with the finer points of Fade-Waking world interaction mechanics, in hopes of perfecting what he'd learned in the ruins in the Brecilian Forest before entering the fray at Redcliffe.

After an hour the words on the pages began to blur together, and Cadryn shoved the book away, laying his head on the table with a disgruntled noise. Almost immediately a soft tutting sounded behind him, and before he could sit up the air changed on his right side with the warmth of someone in closer proximity, leaning down to speak into his ear. "I can think of more comfortable places to fall into an exhausted stupor." Playful, sultry—no one could possibly mistake Zevran's meaning.

Turning just enough to look up at him, Cadryn gave the elf a small smile. "But not nearly so boring," he shot back. "These thick and musty tomes," he closed the book on the table with one hand,and the sound echoed loudly through the chamber, "aren't meant to entertain, but to lull me back to sleep."

"Oh?" Zevran quirked an eyebrow, braced his right hand against the table so he could remain leaning over Cadryn comfortably. "That I might have some difficulty with. I think perhaps you have finally found something the written word can do for you that I could not."

"Careful," Cadryn said, smile warming a little, and he ran a finger down the spine of the book on the table. "These were my lovers well before you. Extolling their virtues might remind me of what I saw in them."

Zevran straightened, and a curious, "Hm?" came out almost a purr. "Who says you cannot have both? I would not be jealous." His left hand he settled on Cadryn's shoulder blade, splaying his fingers there, and Cadryn finally got a good look at him for the first time that night. How strange the assassin looked in plainclothes, small and wiry and almost insubstantial. It didn't help that he tended to darker colors, blacks and reds and golds that turned him into a gold-chased, bloody shadow. "You know, it is not at all uncommon a fantasy in Antiva to take a scholar in a library. Granted, the scholar in question is usually some dark-haired beauty with spectacles, but I don't find the current prospect _wanting_."

That earned a little huffing sound, not quite a laugh. "I don't think so. Not tonight, at least."

"Are you sure? I am confident I could exhaust you just as well as these books would bore you."

Pushing off from the table to sit up, Cadryn still slouched, resting his forehead against the heel of his left palm. "I'd be too distracted, I think."

Zevran made a humming sound, slow, a sound of affirmation. "The nightmares, then?"

"I can hear the song," Cadryn said, staring forward across the table into darkness. "Clear as I can hear you now. Only in dreams, though."

"Have you told anyone?" A hint of concern in Zevran's voice warmed him a little—it was more than Zevran would let slip not a month ago. They'd come so far in such a short time, it seemed unreal, but here the assassin was, offering comfort and barely-concealed concern.

"Riordan. He said it wouldn't matter soon, that I should endure." With a little sigh Cadryn leaned in Zevran's touch, the hand still on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Hm?" a curious noise, and Zevran turned to lean against the table, hand trailing down to Cadryn's forearm. "Please, do tell me what I have done, so I may take advantage of it in the future."

"It's nice," Cadryn said, looking up with a little smile, catching Zevran's eyes, "to have someone to worry about you."

Zevran's hand tensed a little on his arm, and for a moment Cadryn feared even that was too much for him, too close to the words they refused to say. Zevran's gaze drifted slightly to his right ear, and gave a faint smile of his own. "Indeed it is." Clearing his throat, Zevran's smile widened, a little impish. "Shall we at least retire to somewhere more comfortable? There are too many ghosts in this part of the Tower for my taste."

Cadryn nodded, and pushed away from the table to stand. _Nice_ wasn't really a strong enough word, he thought, as they walked back through the halls, Zevran keeping a hand on his shoulder. Somewhere along the way this had become his reason for fighting—he couldn't imagine a world without Zevran being worth much, which meant the Blight had to be stopped. Selfish, but Cadryn felt no guilt over it, only that it was a much better reason than any other he'd worked out.


	6. Rhythm

He woke nose to canvas, outside the warm confines of blankets and pelts, thoroughly chilled, curled up so tightly around his stomach that his spine was nearly bowed in two, and the song ringing in his ears. If he left now, he could reach her, somewhere just south of Lothering, in just under a week.

This time she'd sung his _name_, told him he would need it no longer, that there would be nothing but this beautiful, all-consuming song, surging toward a glorious crescendo, a moment where all creation and destruction is expressed in a single chord. And she'd sung that it was inevitable. If not here and now, then it would happen one day, with another of her brothers, and he would be long dead by then. Why not make it happen, so he could for the first time truly live and then die in that moment of perfection? Why not _really_ make a difference, not just on a pathetic mortal scale?

And she made too much sense for his liking. What did he owe any of these people? They'd rejected him for an accident of birth, feared him for monstrous powers, and now expected him to resolve all their petty squabbles and save them for only the barest scraps of halfhearted gratitude in return.

Rolling over he burrowed back under the covers, and in the faint light from the watch fire and a half moon watched the rise and fall of his lover's exposed chest, sleek and perfectly defined muscle softly highlighted, eyelids fluttering and lips drawn into a scowl in some unpleasant dream of his own.

Cadryn drew closer, pulled the blankets up properly over both of them against the cold night, wrapped himself around Zevran's body, ran his lips up the helix of Zevran's ear in a ghost of a kiss. The elf murmured sleepily, leaned into his touch, burrowing against a promise of shared warmth, and the scowl smoothed to neutrality. Cadryn scooted down under the blankets to lay his head against Zevran's chest, closed his eyes and settled down to sleep again.

Now that they were so very close, now that she knew who he was, this rhythm was the only thing louder than the song.


	7. The Contest

This chapter was written as a kmeme fill, so it is **NSFW**. Kmeme has been teaching me things about Cadryn I didn't know...

* * *

How delightful, that moment of shared release—Zevran clawed at the blankets beneath him, head thrown back in a silent cry, as Cadryn roughly thrust in and stilled, hands clutching the elf's hips in a bruising grip, filling him, coming hard with a throaty gasp. Spent, Cadryn lowered his head to Zevran's shoulder with an moan, somewhere between satisfied and exasperated.

"Ah, do not despair, my dear Warden. That was much nearer than your previous attempts." Zevran settled a hand at the base of Cadryn's spine, ran fingertips lightly up to the nape of his neck, twining them lightly in auburn hair.

"Its impossible," Cadryn muttered into Zevran's shoulder. "Not that I don't _enjoy_ trying." Chuckling, Zevran drew his other hand up to give Cadryn's shoulder a squeeze.

They'd been at this for two weeks now, this contest, and one of them would inevitably fold. Zevran had the advantage, of course, confident that he could tease the most lascivious cries from his Warden at his leisure. He drew the contest out for selfish reasons: Cadryn, a healer by nature despite the intensity of his rare emotional outbursts, was a gentle lover. And this was novel, unique, and honestly Zevran _liked_ it. He'd experienced all manner of fetishes and kinks in his life as a Crow, but never this sweetness, this emotional depth in lovemaking. It frightened him, this near transcendental connection to the Warden during their intimate entanglements, but drew him back, craving more as if some irresistible drug. That didn't mean that he wanted to _abandon_ any of his old preferences, no, and this contest of theirs drew a harshness from the Warden that he missed and sometimes craved. And he had _plans_, after all.

Plans he decided to enact at Eamon's estate in Denerim just before the Landsmeet. When not plagued by taint-induced nightmares Cadryn was a deep sleeper, and Zevran very quiet and gentle in his preparations. He only worried about the plan for a moment, and braced himself to face a moment of genuine panic from the Warden. That would pass, of course, and would be worth it in the end.

So Cadryn woke in the night to soft kisses trailing up his jaw, a nip at one earlobe, trailing back down to the hollow of his collarbone. With a moan he stretched, hands moving down to trail across Zevran's back-

Cadryn's green eyes opened wide and starkly awake as his wrists met resistance, and he tried to move them again to be certain. Arms outstretched above him, hands very nearly tied together, just enough slack that he could tug in resistance before the ropes started to creak against the wooden backboard. He craned his head to get a look at the knots, but slender fingers gripped him on either cheek and forced his gaze in a certain direction, familiar lips _claiming_ his. Cadryn very nearly responded in kind, but the pressure on his wrists and a spike of fear stilled him. Neither resisting the kiss nor participating, Cadryn just let that tongue slide past his lips, exploring. Past that initial forcefulness it faded into passion, and Cadryn felt himself responding in spite of the circumstances, in spite of the fear.

When Zevran drew away Cadryn tugged at the ropes again, panicking. "Zevran-"

Zevran hushed him with a less involved kiss. "My dear Warden, you are always in _control_ of everything around you. You deprive yourself of so much in this. Submitting to another's whims, relinquishing that control, can be a release in itself."

"Fine," Cadryn said, tone clipped. Tugging at the ropes for emphasis, he continued, "Then untie me. I'll submit. Whatever you want."

Zevran tutted at Cadryn, shaking his head. "You misunderstand. I have removed that choice for you. What do you expect?" Green eyes still regarded him with fear, wide and following his every move in a twitchy fashion. Leaning over Cadryn, stretching his own nude body to give Cadryn a better view—green eyes flicked down and back up briefly—Zevran tested the ropes. "So many associate these bindings with pain," Zevran mused. "I expect you to find no pleasure in pain, and so I will not offer you that. What I want is to still your roaming hands, to force you to _experience_. You will have no distraction from any sensation as I am free to do what I please to you." In spite of himself, Cadryn shuddered, Zevran's tone _felt_ in the base of his spine, and Zevran's smirk broke into a genuine smile. "Ah, yes, _that_ is a nice start."

Zevran started in with the kisses again, moving down his neck, almost unconsciously brushing his length against Cadryn's with each motion, light touches, never quite satisfying. By the time Zevran gripped Cadryn's erection in one hand, running his tongue down the side and looking up with half-lidded eyes for Cadryn's reaction, Cadryn was already quivering, partly still in fear from having so little control, partly...

"Trust me," Zevran murmured, and Cadryn did his best to relax. He felt so utterly helpless, and it felt _wrong_. He was a leader now, a _hero_, and being at anyone's mercy tore violently at his self-expectations. Closing his eyes, Cadryn took a deep breath, then another, trying to remind himself that this was his _lover_. And when a familiar warmth enveloped him Cadryn jerked against the restraints, sucked in a surprised breath as that wicked tongue began teasing. Unable to tangle his hands in Zevran's hair, Cadryn grit his teeth against the urge to thrust up, but eventually couldn't help himself. Anticipating this, Zevran used the motion to swallow his length.

Cadryn came embarrassingly fast, finally opening his eyes in time to meet Zevran's, briefly, before their lips met once more. With a flash of hope he realized that he could taste himself on Zevran's tongue, and so returned the kiss with ardent fervor, eliciting a little moan from his lover. Some modicum of control returned with the ability to invoke such a reaction in spite of his helplessness. Zevran broke the kiss off before Cadryn could do much with this new-found control, but the damage was already done. It wasn't about domination, but about Cadryn relinquishing control, if only for a moment. With Zevran's weight off him briefly Cadryn inched up on the bed, trying to get a little slack in the ropes.

"You look _amazing_ like this." Leaning back, Zevran's tongue flitted out to lick his lips before one hand trailed down across taut muscles and golden skin to fondle himself. And that was the greatest turn-on of all, the thought that in such a state he was a _spectacle_. It was one thing to make love to someone and know that they found you attractive, but another entirely to see this sort of response. It drove Cadryn to try and imagine himself from Zevran's perspective, how he must look here, flushed and panting from his orgasm, still half-erect, clutching at the ropes—he knew what response seeing _Zevran_ in such a state would pull from him.

Leaning forward, Zevran rubbed their sexes together, and Cadryn couldn't help himself, _wanting_ to be a spectacle, grinding up against him when the opportunity came. And he just let go, carried away on a tide of sensation as Zevran had his way with him, all manner of incoherent cries issuing from him. He surfaced to a shattering climax, jerking at the ropes, Zevran buried inside of him, "_Zev!"_ tearing itself from his throat, fully voiced with all the volume he could muster. Zevran followed an instant later, leaning forward, grinding his teeth and then _biting_ Cadryn's shoulder to stifle a similar cry.

He surfaced again to Zevran untying the ropes, laying soft kisses on the heels of his hands as if in apology. "That doesn't count," Cadryn croaked, voice broken from yelling.

Looking down at him, Zevran made a curious noise, so Cadryn repeated, "That doesn't count. We're not in camp."

Zevran laughed heartily, throwing back his head, laid another kiss against Cadryn's temple. "A technicality, my dear Warden."

Grinning, Cadryn just said, "I can't win otherwise."

Still chuckling, Zevran slid down to lie next to him, propping himself up on one elbow. "I propose this: we put it to a vote. I am confident our companions will declare me the winner after that lovely serenade of yours, if only to avoid a repeat performance."

For the first time in recent memory Cadryn honestly _blushed_. "You win, then."

"And I'll be sure to collect my prize in due time."


	8. Wardrobe Malfunction

This was written as a kmeme fill, but is SFW.

* * *

Their first moments of privacy in more than a week came when Bhelen offered them rooms in the palace to recover from their trek through the Deep Roads. Indeed, they hadn't even paused to rest, but gone straight to the council with Caridin's crown and their choice. They were standing in an otherwise empty hall outside the room meant for the Warden, hesitating, uncertain of what to do—torn between going their separate ways for much-needed rest or taking advantage of the situation.

Cadryn came to a decision first, and when Zevran opened his mouth to bid the Warden goodnight Cadryn covered it with his own, an almost forceful, lust-driven kiss. Not hard and bruising or claiming, but certainly stronger than the Warden's usual tender manner. Now, when Cadryn gripped his shoulders and pressed him against the wall, _that_ was truly surprising, and Cadryn trailing one hand down to grip his hip, fingers twitching in a grip just hard enough to really feel it through the leather armor, pulled a lusty gasp from Zevran's throat, a sound half-voiced into the kiss. Zevran almost forgot to respond, shocked by the normally reserved Warden's unabashed desire.

When he did, it was to return the kiss with equal fervor, to gather together a handful each of the Warden's robes where they were tighter across the chest, pulling him closer. Cadryn obliged with a little grunt, and ended up having to bend his knees slightly to maintain the kiss, one of them ended up sliding between Zevran's thighs, and Cadryn had to shift his off hand from Zevran's shoulder to the wall in order to take his weight and maintain balance. The position was doubly awkward between the restrictive cut of Cadryn's robes and Zevran's now cumbersome armor, so Cadryn pulled away, whispered in Zevran's ear, "I want you," hot breath making Zevran strain toward the promise of his touch imperceptibly. And just who was supposed to be the master of seduction here?

The belts of Zevran's baldric fell away as soon as they were through the door, weapons cast aside with less care than they deserved, and the belts at Cadryn's waist and the harness for his staff met a similar fate, clattering down in a heap. They didn't make it far from the door before Zevran caught Cadryn's face between his hands, pulled him down for another kiss, teasing the Warden's bottom lip with a gentle, sucking and biting playfully as if a promise of things to come. It earned an appreciative sound out of the man, who tangled a hand in Zevran's hair for a moment before he went searching for all the little buckles and ties to Zevran's armor.

They'd been in the Deep Roads for nearly a week, beset on all sides by Darkspawn and smaller, more annoying creatures, hardly able to sleep properly, and there had been precious little time to care for his armor properly. So the first buckle took two hands, the leather creaking under new stress. Zevran peeled back the collar of Cadryn's robe and ran his fingers across the sensitive flesh there at the base of the human's throat before attacking it, teasing in the same fashion as he had the man's lips. He took Cadryn's behavior as leave to be a little rougher than usual, made an effort to leave a little mark that would just be visible over the edge of the collar.

Cadryn swore when the next buckle finally gave, then muttered with no small amount of dark humor, "You know, your armor is covered in a very fine layer of lyrium dust. Like you rolled in it."

Pulling away to nuzzle at the growing mark on Cadryn's skin, Zevran asked, "Should that concern me?"

"It's not enough to worry about." And he swore again as a tie finally parted, then moved on to another buckle. Zevran's hands wandered down to the lacing on Cadryn's robe and began working at the knots, found the knots tight and the lacing hard and slick, as if worn by overuse. It took more attention than he would've liked, and eventually _all_ of his attention, until the two of them were standing there in frustration and waning lust, picking and tugging at the infuriating impediments to taking their desire out on one another. Cadryn swore again, something colorful involving Andraste's mother, and the fabric and flesh beneath Zevran's fingers _flickered_ momentarily, fading to insubstantial mist, and Zevran felt part of _himself_ pulled along as Cadryn slipped half into the Fade to exert his _real_ strength against an exceptionally stubborn buckle.

Cadryn succeeded first, though Zevran playfully told him, "Using magic is cheating," trying to lighten the foul mood growing between them.

"I'd do worse things to get you out of this _stuff_ faster," Cadryn growled, and the last buckle came loose, Cadryn carefully pulling the armor away, which left Zevran in the padding underneath. Cadryn made an exasperated noise, somewhere low in his throat. "And I was just getting excited."

Finally giving in, Zevran stepped away from the mage, shucking out of the padding and his small clothes as he retrieved a dagger. "This seems the only way, my friend."

"I'm beyond caring any more," and Cadryn held out his arms low to the sides, exposing the complex lacing. Zevran split the ties easily with the dagger, which clattered to the floor in favor of running his hands over the faintly golden skin revealed as he pushed the robes away.

They tumbled into the bed, a flurry of kisses and nips, enthusiasm renewed, but each carried a sluggishness to his motions, a weariness. An nothing, it seemed, could fully restore either of them to hardness, too worn and weary by this point.

So they abandoned mutual pleasure by unspoken agreement, simply stared at each other for a moment, each with his head propped against the others thigh (and how lovely this _would have been_, Zevran thought, to catch snatches and glimpses of Cadryn eagerly working him with his mouth as Zevran did the same).

"I hate this place," Cadryn eventually said.

"Agreed. Let us never return, if we can help it."

Nuzzling at the flesh of Zevran's inner thigh, laying a delicate kiss with the faintest swirl of his tongue, got an appreciative moan, a twitch, but nothing else, so Cadryn said, "In the morning."

"Yes. In the morning."

Passing the night in each others arms was well enough, at least, and Zevran was too tired to even to worry over the implications of his growing regard for the Warden, as usually happened with such intimacy.

ooooooo

Zevran stretched languidly, reveling in the relief, the intense sense of _comfort_ from a good night's sleep (he slept better in Cadryn's arms than he'd ever slept, which was still disconcerting) and shared release with an eager lover. He didn't allow himself these indulgences much, this _wallowing_ in the afterglow, but Zevran felt he'd earned it, and his eyes slid over Cadryn's form approvingly as the man's weight slipped from the bed.

He could get used to this, quite easily.

When Cadryn swore, Zevran sat up, propping himself up on his elbows to see the mage standing with his robes in hand, plucking the shredded laces out.

"I didn't bring a spare," the Warden announced, "and am an idiot."


	9. Control Issues

This chapter was written as a kmeme fill and is **NSFW**. It is also potentially **Spoilery for Nations and Ages**. Nothing huge, just that it doesn't end in horrible tragedy (well, no tragedy that can't be overcome with a few years' time)

* * *

At any other time, Zevran slipping into his study and sneaking up to trail a line of kisses down the back of Cadryn's neck would be welcome, the elf draping his arms over Cadryn's shoulders to caress through the fine fabric of his robes, warm breath on his ear, "Time for a break, my dear Warden," a teasing nip at the top of his ear.

At any other time. His seneschal had come down with some awful illness not a week prior, and so all the work of maintaining Amaranthine fell to Cadryn once again. He reached up with one hand to cup Zevran's cheek, but didn't look away from the ledgers he was comparing. "Not now," Cadryn muttered. "I'll be lucky to get this done in time to sleep tonight."

But Zevran wasn't satisfied with that answer, leaned forward to nuzzle his cheek and traced the very edge of one half of his tattoos. "Must it be done now?"

"No." Sighing in exasperation, Cadryn drew away, shaking off Zevran's embrace with a little less care than intended. "But I'm meeting with some of the Banns tomorrow and having it done would be useful. Being able to offer financial figures for how much it costs to maintain the Wardens versus the-" Zevran kissed him, or tried to, fingers trailing up his chin and tongue seeking entrance, but Cadryn wouldn't have any of it, jerking away again and pushing Zevran back with a hand on his chest. "Are you _listening_? I don't have time for this."

Zevran withdrew, and so Cadryn went back to his work, assuming the not-quite-argument over, at least until Zevran stopped directly opposite the desk from him, arms akimbo, hips canted in a very haughty but alluring posture. "My friend," he began, head tilted forward ever so slightly, amber eyes deathly serious, maybe even a little _angry_. "I think perhaps in all your time alone you have forgotten a valuable lesson learned during the Blight." Cadryn only glanced up to take in Zevran's posture, his expression, and while it always upset him to see Zevran angry he was somehow even _more_ attractive, a smoldering fire, a snake about to strike, handsome in a terrifying way, and it stirred more than a little lust in the mage.

_Focus_, and Cadryn went back to his work, but Zevran would have none of it, starting at one end of the desk and sweeping everything off it in one swift motion. Of course, Cadryn bolted to his feet, drawing to his full height to look down on the elf, shouted, "_Andraste's ass_, Zevran! What was that? Do I pick the locks on your doors and sneak into your rooms and wreck your poisons lab when you don't immediately go bottoms-up for a hard fucking?"

Before Cadryn even registered that Zevran was _moving_, the Antivan had a fistful of his robes, jerked him forward so forcefully that Cadryn's thighs banged hard against the edge of the desk, kissed him. In his surprise Cadryn responded, too shocked to do much more than gape at Zevran's behavior. Zevran somehow got enough leverage to drag him down onto the desk, twisting as they fell, and when Zevran swung a leg over to straddle him Cadryn started fighting back again, bucking to throw Zevran off.

Laughing, Zevran drew away. "You see? I know what's good for you. You should listen to me more often."

"Zevran," Cadryn snarled. "I don't _want_ to hurt you. But-"

Leaning in again, Zevran fisted a hand in Cadryn's hair, jerked his head down so it banged against the desk _just hard enough_ to hurt, but not hard enough to bruise. "Do you remember the night in Eamon's estate when I tied you down?" Zevran kept perfect eye contact, pinning Cadryn with his intensity as much as with his body. "How you begged for me to stop, to keep going, to do anything? How I had my way with you?" Cadryn shuddered beneath him, eyes drifting closed for an instant, so Zevran applied just a _little_ pressure with his hips, just a taste, a promise. "I think perhaps you have forgotten what I can do to you, do _for_ you."

Mouth suddenly dry, Cadryn tried to speak, for a moment couldn't find his voice, but eventually managed, "When you put it that way, I suppose-"

A dark chuckle cut him off. "You _suppose_?" Zevran straightened, sitting up properly, but it shifted his weight against Cadryn's growing hardness and the mage just managed to bite back a groan. "You rebuffed me so firmly earlier, _mi amore_, I think perhaps I will require some demonstration of your desire."

"_Please_," Cadryn groaned, rolling his head to the side. "Don't play-"

A single finger to his lips silenced Cadryn, and the other hand brought his gaze back up. "You were about to say something foolish, my dear Warden. But that was a good start. Shall we begin again?"

"_Please_."

"Good," Zevran said, face schooled in careful thought but mirth betrayed by his eyes. "That is a good start, again. But _please_ what? What is it your are begging for?"

"_I want you._"

Shaking his head, Zevran tsked. "While I am certain I know what you mean, there is still some doubt. Could you perhaps spell it out for me?"

Cadryn made a noise of frustration, one that reverberated in his chest, so strong that Zevran even felt it where he straddled the mage's hips. "_Fuck me._"

"Hm, that sounded like an order. And is just a little too to the point, I think. No, I need some more sincere demonstration, I believe."

Finally, Cadryn sighed in exasperation, relaxed against the desk. "What do you want me to do?"

Gesturing down to the lacing on his leathers, Zevran said, "Firstly, this will have to go." So Cadryn dutifully unlaced them, laying careless caresses as he did so. He peeled everything back and down just far enough to expose Zevran, to pull him out half-hard, wrapped one hand around the shaft. "Now, what was it you said to me in the hall a few days ago, when you were so eager to have me in your mouth? Ah, I believe it was, 'I'm Arl, I'll do what I please.' Well, _Arl_, it would please me to see a repeat performance."

Zevran moved up until he was straddling Cadryn's chest just beneath the shoulders, and Cadryn reached around to work his off hand under the back of Zevran's shirt, to urge the elf forward. It was a slightly awkward position, Cadryn craning his neck up to bring first just the head to his mouth, laying sucking kisses and teasing licks in the most sensitive places. Zevran offered some support by digging his fingers into Cadryn's hair, grabbing a handful around back and applying a gentle pressure. "You should not have cut this." Zevran ran his other hand through auburn hair, a tender gesture. "It looks good, but I can't get a sure hold."

Cadryn glanced up at him, but said nothing, instead finally taking Zevran into his mouth, removing his hand from Zevran's shaft to grip the Antivan's left hip, pulling him a little closer still, until Zevran had to hunch over and plant his free hand against the desk. Awkward as the position was, it was _good_, somehow more intimate. This wasn't about controlling Cadryn, after all, not about domination or power play, but seeing him willingly surrender, setting aside his self control for a moment. It was the _trust_ implied in the act, something Zevran had never hoped to gain after his assassination attempt and during his awkward face-first tumble into love with this man. That, and having Cadryn so senseless that he didn't know which way was up, just that he wanted _more_, those were the goals.

Cadryn took him in as far as possible with the awkward angle, still teasing with his tongue as he went, and with an appreciative moan Zevran said, "This is one thing you have not forgotten, at least."

Zevran felt the amused hum in response all along his length, and Cadryn began to work him in earnest. The human was a little too eager, though, and Zevran feared he might not last long, all this build up leaving him as ready as Cadryn clearly was. Zevran drew away just as Cadryn reached the peak of his momentum, leaving a trail of moisture across the Warden's lips. "Zev?" He looked confused, perhaps even a little hurt.

Carefully, Zevran dismounted the table, keeping himself firmly in hand, and said, "Off with your robes."

Much as Zevran wanted to unlace them himself, watching Cadryn do it while under the strain of anticipation, skin flushed and eyes locked on where Zevran had himself firmly in hand was somehow more tantilizing. For Cadryn it was that sensation of being a spectacle again, of being enough in sight alone to stir Zevran's desire, and he was shrugging out of his robes in short order, leaving them draped across the desk. Hands went to his smallclothes, but didn't remove them until Zevran nodded his assent.

"Touch yourself," Zevran ordered, and Cadryn complied, keeping his eyes on Zevran the entire time, strong fingers wrapping around his girth and starting in on long, slow strokes, making a show of the motion and skin gliding across skin. This he had missed, the sight of Cadryn in such a state, and now that he had it again he didn't think he could ever drink in enough, all these little physical cues of their mutual desire and affection. "Harder." A little twitch from Cadryn as he obeyed, and Zevran wasn't sure if it was the command or hearing the loss of control in Zevran's voice, that it was turning husky.

Approaching again, Zevran kissed the mage, let his hands wander, even briefly putting a hand over Cadryn's as he worked himself, controlling the pace and grip a little more directly. When Cadryn reached out with his free hand to touch Zevran in kind, the elf stopped him, muttered, "Not yet," against Cadryn's skin.

Zevran got the mage uncomfortably close to release, then pulled Cadryn's hands away, out to the sides, gripped at the wrists. "_Zev_," he begged, pleading just as emphatically with his eyes. Zevran just kissed him softly on one cheek, barely missing the bottom curl of the man's tattoos.

"Wait for me," Zevran whispered, and then left Cadryn lying there for a moment, the man whimpering involuntarily at the loss of contact and even thrusting up a little, hands clenching to keep from reaching out for a caress of flesh.

Zevran shucked off his shirt on the way out of Cadryn's study, every motion calculated to tantilize, as he could _feel_ the man's eyes on him, hungry and wanting. There was only one other room of consequence in the Warden's apartments: his bedroom. And Zevran found what he sought with ease, the little bottle of oil easily accessible (the Warden had learned his lesson early on). Zevran found a stray sash from a set of mage's robes as well, and on a whim took it, carefully folding it as he went.

Cadryn was laying exactly as Zevran had left him, arms outstretched and fists clenched, body just drawing back from the edge, but now his eyes were tightly shut—likely trying to _not_ touch himself in Zevran's absence. So Zevran started in kissing him gently, touching him insistently again, and Cadryn moaned into his mouth, which was a sure sign the man was ready.

Pulling him up into a sitting position, Zevran set about slowly shuffling them around until they were both standing, Cadryn leaning against the desk while Zevran continued his slow attentions, using them as a distraction as he tied the man's wrists together with the folded sash. When the elf ran his lips along a heavy collarbone, Cadryn gasped, "_Please_," voice almost pained.

Zevran jerked on the sash like a leash, finally drawing Cadryn's attention to it, then moved nimbly across the desk, giving just enough slack so Cadryn could follow his command of, "Down," before the leash pulled truly taught. Zevran ducked briefly to tie off the free end underneath the desk, tethering him in place.

"Zev?" _Always_ with that worried tone in his voice when something like this happened, always making Zevran doubt for a moment.

"Amore," Zevran murmured, stroking his hair soothingly, looking up into green eyes for a moment. "You need only say the word, and I will stop."

"Never stop."

Zevran took those words from his lips with a kiss, tangling both hands in what remained of the man's hair (there was just enough to grip now), and when they drew apart stood, presenting himself to the mage's mouth again. "_Zev,_" he groaned. "_Please._ Just-"

"I could leave you here like this," Zevran said, looking down at the Warden with a wicked gleam in his eyes, just the faintest hint of a smile. "Stretched so lewdly across the desk, left wanting, for someone to discover in the morning."

"You wouldn't."

Quirking an eyebrow down at him, as Cadryn strained to look up and make eye contact, Zevran's smile only widened. "I wouldn't?" When Cadryn didn't rise to the bait, Zevran said, "You are very right. But I might simply take my pleasure of you and leave you to take matters into your own hands, as it were."

"_No_. Whatever you want." Cadryn strained against the bonds, trying to reach out for Zevran. "I _need you_."

And from the way he sucked when presented with Zevran's hardness again Zevran _believed_ it-_need_ was the only word that could describe such a state, the dedication there, the complete attention in his ministrations. And the sight of him stretched so lasciviously across the desk—Zevran grew too near too soon, pulled Cadryn away a little more roughly than intended.

He was not as gentle in his preparations as usual, and wondered briefly which of them was really in control here, for the man who was _tied up_ to have him fumbling and harsh and far too eager to _be inside of him_, to find a shared release. Cadryn's response to Zevran's rough manner in slicking and stretching him was to simply lean into the treatment, biting back a sound half-pain/half-pleasure.

Zevran slid himself fully in with one stroke, and Cadryn managed a breathy, "Finally," full of sarcasm, almost as if he'd been saving up the will and energy for it. So Zevran made sure to set a quick pace and aim true, to keep Cadryn breathless and moaning instead of snarking. When Zevran finally came, too soon for his liking but at the same time _not soon enough_, it was intense, near to blinding, but he rode it out, trying to bring Cadryn to climax before before he finished, reaching around and taking the other man's hardness in hand to jerk him to completion. Cadryn joined him with a cry, sagging against the desk as his knees gave out, and Zevran pressed himself to the larger man's back, strangely exhausted, seeking strength in that contact.

There were a handful of moments Zevran treasured between them, moments he felt embodied their relationship in a single phrase or gesture. The needful look and sound around, "_Never stop."_ was surely one of them—Cadryn had meant more than this physical thing between them.

Once he had some presence of mind Cadryn mumbled beneath him, "Zevran?"

"Si, amore?"

"These were some of my best robes."

And now the fine silk beneath them was surely covered in the mage's release, ruined without careful work that Cadryn would surely leave no other to—Zevran laughed softly, cheek pressed against his back. "I have a reputation to keep, yes?"


	10. Fantasy

This was written as a kmeme fill, but is SFW. It is also **slightly spoilery for Nations and Ages**, though is set very far into the future, so there shouldn't be anything specific.

* * *

All I ever wanted was to  
Feel like I had done something with my life  
All I found was you

* * *

Ten years gone, and Zevran had come to terms with the idea of "forever", finally, fallen into a very comfortable role. He'd never be a Grey Warden, no, but he was just as much Commander as Cadryn, and just as much Arl as well—neither of them officially, of course. And he took impish delight in introducing chaos into the monotony of Cadryn's perfectly structured life, keeping the mage from turning into some unfathomable arcane thing or some clockwork automaton as he'd heard they had in the Anderfels.

This life grew familiar and comfortable, just enough excitement to keep from dulling his skills too much, to keep him from growing fat and lazy, but quiet enough that both of them had been able to sort out their problems. Well, quiet when they had each other to share the work of running the Grey and the arling. And it was far from the cage they'd expected it to be now. They were bound to the arling more or less, but it was a cage of their own design, made pleasant by their own efforts.

And as much as Zevran knew Cadryn treasured those days when violent storms swept in from the ocean and covered Amaranthine in snow and ice, and they idled their time trapped in the keep together in front of a fire, they drove Zevran mad. He'd been so happy for spring that _he_, almost the definition of a city elf, had insisted on leaving for a walk in the countryside around the keep. Cadryn had eagerly agreed, of course, and now here they were sitting in a hillside meadow where the season's new growth was just beginning, watching the distant comings and goings of Amaranthine's farm land.

Ten years since the Blight, no sign of Morrigan or her child, and Ferelden was mostly recovered. The last Darkspawn incursion had been not quite a year ago, and that a weak thing, easily brushed aside. People got used to a mage as Arl, and the golden shadow at his side, until the shadow became something else entirely, an extension of the Arl, a second voice for him.

Ten years, and Zevran's wistful smile faltered as he looked to the man sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him. There was a little more stoop in Cadryn's posture, and he'd grown his auburn hair out again at Zevran's request, but wore it forward, uncharacteristically messy. It looked good, except Zevran knew he did it to hide the gray creeping in at his temples. His crows' feet were a little more pronounced than they should be, he moved a little too stiffly—far from an old man, of course, still spry. But it was too much for a man barely twenty-eight.

They didn't talk about it, because Zevran was afraid of the topic, but Alistair had brought it up to him, that the taint was effecting Cadryn more strongly than it should, that he would likely be one of the unlucky Wardens to go early. It made sense, Alistair had explained: Cadryn had joined during a blight, he was very sensitive to the taint anyway, and what he'd done with Urthemiel's essence—and Zevran had stopped him before they could finish the conversation, because he didn't want to hear it.

Every time Zevran thought about it, he was stricken with a desire to make love to Cadryn, usually slow, savoring each kiss and caress, or sometimes desperate, as if it might be their last, a raw expression of lust, or sometimes seeking to drive the other man to a voiceless cry, so Zevran could memorize that look of ecstasy.

And he did so now, here in the short spring grass, on this isolated hill far from any prying eyes or interruptions, turning to face Cadryn and sliding a hand up his jaw to cup one cheek, tracing the tattoos across it—Cadryn returned the gesture, and they kissed, and things progressed from there, Zevran doing his best to wring little sighs and soft cries from the other man. It as always about Cadryn, now, because Zevran was afraid.

During the Blight he'd been terrified of commitment, so thirty years seemed like forever. And after, when he came to terms with this concept of permanence, thirty years seemed like enough, a long promise for two people who had lived violent lives and expected no more than the next dawn. Now they had so much less, hurtling toward that end, and Zevran faced the grim reality that he would outlive Cadryn by far, and the ten or fifteen years they had left couldn't possibly be enough.

Zevran wrote out the depth of his sorrow and his fear and his love in the intensity of sex, and beneath him Cadryn came with a strange, strangled sound, one he'd heard a handful of times and usually meant he'd outdone himself. So he allowed himself a self-satisfied smile, and pushed the pace to find his own climax, leaning down to kiss Cadryn, one hand sliding up into the man's hair.

When they parted from that kiss, breathless, Zevran caught Cadryn's green eyes to share a loving gaze, something he'd finally come to appreciate, but his eyes drifted and his soft smile fell when he realized his fingers were twined in the small lock of gray at Cadryn's temple.

He hid it quickly, that expression, and the pain of the reminder, but Cadryn noticed—Zevran caught it in his eyes, an apology and a sorrow—and said nothing. They were too afraid of it, both of them, Zevran to be alone when he had just come to truly understand and treasure this thing they shared, Cadryn to leave him.

"What holds us here?" Zevran asked, his voice still husky with fading lust but a catch in his words. "Duty? You have done more for Ferelden, and all of Thedas, than they had any right to ask of you. I want to truly _live_ with you, not this half-existence we share. Neither of us belongs to himself here, instead we are in part property of the people. I want all of you in what time remains."

Zevran didn't notice his own scant tears until Cadryn reached up to brush them away with a thumb. "Spring seems like a good time to start a new life. We'll leave before the week is out."

And they needed no more discussion to decide it—they'd been silently trying to convince each other over the past few months, and it was clear now, so very clear that it was nearly a moment of epiphany. They simply had no more time to waste on others.


	11. The Kiss

I have a very persistent mental image. I want to draw it, but I know I'll only walk away from my sketchbook in disgust. So I'm going to write it. It's not the same, but maybe it will help. This is **post Nations and Ages**, but shouldn't contain any real spoilers.

* * *

Zevran caught up to Cadryn walking down one of the Keep's second story halls, a creased note in his hands, the mage seemingly lost in though, and Zevran had to quicken his step to keep up with those long strides. He thought about walking silently at Cadryn's side until the man noticed him, but it didn't take long, Cadryn's resonant voice welling up unexpected from relative silence. "Leliana is finally coming to visit.

"Oh?" Cadryn handed him the letter as they began to descend a set of stairs, and Zevran skimmed it quickly, Leliana's florid script easy on the eyes, and amusingly enough the letter even smelled of her. "I find it hard to believe she has not been to visit already in the past three years."

"She had her own problems to deal with, as we did." Cadryn took the letter back, and stopped mid-stride on the landing with a dramatic groan, leaning against the railing overlooking the entry hall. Zevran waited patiently, know he would explain without prodding. "Before she left Denerim, she made me promise to throw a part of sorts for her. A ball, so she would have an excuse to dress finely and to dance with us. She said she would give me enough notice to prepare, and I imagine she's halfway here by now." The hand holding the letter remained on the banister, gripping it tightly, but the other covered his face for another wordless protest. "I don't know the first thing about organizing this sort of-"

Zevran stepped up to the banister, gripped Cadryn's shoulder to gain his attention, and then the mage's hand fell away from his face and he turned to look at Zevran. Zevran's hand snaked up from his shoulder to twine in his hair, which was finally long enough again for a good hold, turned the taller man more fully towards him and pulled him down for a kiss, Zevran's other hand sliding down to grip Cadryn's hip and pull him close.

For a moment Cadryn acted as if he had no idea what was going on, standing there with his now empty hands hovering over Zevran's shoulders, too stunned to really do anything but submit quietly to the random outburst of passion, parting his lips but otherwise failing to participate. Inwardly, Zevran smirked: this wasn't the reaction he wanted, but it was the reaction he expected. So he set about claiming the mage's mouth, pouring as much emotion into what should have been a duel of tongues as he could, then sucking at Cadryn's bottom lip until it increased in sensitivity and then teasing it with his tongue, trying to get a reaction.

It was noise from the entry hall that finally startled Cadryn into motion: Anders giving a ribald whistle, and Sigrun catcalling at them. Zevran allowed himself a little glance, and with one hand Cadryn made a rude gesture at their small audience, making them laugh in surprise, the other wrapping around and one large hand settling at the small of Zevran's back, pressing him closer, as Cadryn became an active participant in the kiss instead of basking dumbly in Zevran's unabashed passion.

When they finally drew apart, breathless, Sigrun and Anders were still laughing down in the entry hall, but it seemed distant, Cadryn looking down at him, green eyes hooded, face flushed beneath his dark tattoos, a little smile curling the edges of his lips. "You're right," Cadryn whispered. "It's insignificant. Things will work out."


	12. One Drop of Solace in the Sea of Night

Written as a kmeme fill, so it is **NSFW**. It's also set during a future chapter of Nations and Ages, but contains no real spoilers. It's also supremely dumb.

* * *

Waking inside a dream was always strange, like surfacing from cold water into a hot, muggy evening, the dream air still oppressive around a waking mind. And this certainly wasn't any simple Fade construction, still within the structure of the dream, and absolutely fascinating for it. Cadryn had never heard of anything like it, let alone experienced it himself, and the scholar in him wanted to observe and catalog. And the dream was so very _vivid_! Surely it was from the lyrium, but such dreams were usually marked with haunting visions and strange, deluded imaginings. This was a secluded strip of fine white sand at the base of a high cliff, gentle waves spilling up towards them, a delicious breeze countering the supreme heat of the day. The only thing too strange to be real about the dream was how intensely blue the sky was, a perfect lyrium blue.

Of course, it was hard to take all this in with academic detachment with Zevran intimately familiarizing himself with the tattoo across Cadryn's shoulder with lips and tongue, in particular enamored of the part that seemed to twine around the very edge of his clavicle. "This is new," Zevran muttered. "And it suits you. I approve."

Since it was a dream he almost didn't respond, but Cadryn reasoned it couldn't possibly hurt to indulge. "Someone left me with a taste for ink," drew a smile and a satisfied purr, Zevran's breath across his skin was warm compared to the cool sea breeze. He couldn't remember anything of the dream before this, and in fact seemed to remember a completely different dream, so he had no idea how they'd ended up naked in each other's arms on an Antivan beach—for some reason Cadryn was certain this was Antiva, in the way only dream logic could provide—and didn't much care. He simply relaxed into the soft haze of emotion here, running a hand through Zevran's unbound hair, knowing the assassin enjoyed the tingle of those fingertips running across his scalp (again, dream logic providing him this information) as Zevran worked his way down to the tattoo at Cadryn's hip, exploring that as well.

There was a certainty here, strange, almost an empathy, that Zevran did appreciate these little gestures, didn't find them foolish or embarrassing or weak, when Cadryn ran his fingers through the assassin's hair, or reached down and traced that tattoo across his cheek. "I've missed you," Cadryn said, throat suddenly tight. "So much." Zevran looked up at him, caught Cadryn's gaze with hooded eyes, shifted slightly so that he was running his mouth parallel to Cadryn's hardness, breath playing hot across sensitive flesh, and tracing a single finger up the opposite side, those hard hands using such a light touch it was hardly more than the breath or the breeze. At the apex of his motion Zevran paused, a hungry little flick of his tongue across his lips, but before he could lunge down to take Cadryn in mouth Cadryn gasped out, "Together. _Please_."

A brief moment of rearrangement and caresses, pausing to exchange a kiss and Cadryn murmuring, "Even absent, you carry me through all this," as they parted. It was a dream, of course, and dream-Zevran didn't need to understand what Cadryn referred to, but he looked appropriately confused for a moment, briefly concerned, before accepting the statement for what it was.

"I will return to you," Zevran responded. "You must believe. And whatever 'this' is, I will see it pass."

And then they were each laying on his side, faced with each other's need, and their height difference seemed less of an obstruction in this dream scenario. But Cadryn was beginning to doubt, because the dreamscape was too detailed to be anything less than a memory, and Zevran's actions and reactions were too perfect. He certainly had a strong impression of Zevran's appearance and personality, but had a hard time believing he'd captured the elf's unpredictability so well. Zevran often knew what Cadryn wanted before he'd realized it himself, and aside from that there were a scattering of new scars across his lover's skin, a long, thin one across his ribs and four punctures, relatively fresh, across the flat plane of his hip.

But Cadryn lost the thought, lost himself in the wet heat around him and the hard flesh in his mouth, and eventually decided that since this was a dream he would try, for once, to make Zevran come first, and since this was a dream he could take his well-gifted lover down to the hilt, unlike in the real world where this was always an affair of hands and pauses for breath and _terribly_ unsexy on Cadryn's part (though Zevran always told him it felt marvelous, no matter _what_ Cadryn thought of his own performance). So for once his hands were free to roam, to trace all the hard lines of his lover's sleek body, to linger in sensitive places. Many of these soft caresses he timed with flicks of the tongue or variations in movement, and Zevran seemed almost to forget what he was supposed to be doing.

And it would've worked, save Zevran was making the most _amazing_ sounds around the fullness in his mouth, making it almost impossible not to simply thrust into the smaller man's mouth and finish himself right then. Cadryn did make a gentler motion, bringing that aching need to his lover's attention, and he felt Zevran's lips stretch in a smile, felt the soft laugh around him jolt down to his very core.

Later Cadryn wouldn't be able to recall which of them came first, because the sensation was too intense, but it happened in quick succession, one after the other. And they lay like that for a moment after, each with his head on the other's thigh, struggling to catch their breath in the heavy air, before before moving again to properly embrace each other, Zevran draping himself over Cadryn's chest and burying his face in the crook of the mage's neck.

"_I love you._" Soft, in Antivan, because he never could say it in Fereldan.

Cadryn smiled, hands trailing down from Zevran's shoulders to unconsciously trace the tattoos across the assassin's back, patterns so familiar he sometimes found himself tracing them unconsciously on the nearest convenient surface. "You don't have to say things like that," Cadryn told him. "I already know. And I know that it hurts."

"I should be telling you every day we are together, and whispering it to the dawn every day we are apart. I think I will try that, when I wake. It will be a secret between us, the sun and I." Zevran pushed himself up, looking down at Cadryn with a soft smirk. "This is a dream, certainly, a dream both of us would enjoy. You are a more confident lover, enough to daze even me, and the poetry that comes so naturally to you does not stick in my throat." Zevran kissed him, just a light touch, their tongues only met for an instant. "I will miss this when I wake."

Cadryn sat bolt upright in his bed in Vigil's Keep, staring wide-eyed into the dark, and the dry cold was terrible because he could still feel the Antivan heat on his skin, could still smell Zevran's musk and taste his release, though none of it had been real.

But it had, in a way. He didn't know how, and the prospect that they had somehow reached across the Fade to each other (though Cadryn got the distinct impression Zevran had called _him_, and by some instinct the mage had found his way to his lover's arms, taking his dream-self's place in a dream in progress) seemed at once utterly ludicrous and exciting. And clearly, it had been real _enough_-the evidence of that was spread across his tangled sheets.

He lay back, smiling, closing his eyes and imagining that heat and his lover's touch. That one moment would surely sustain him for some time—and the hope that it might happen again.


	13. Doubt

_You are nothing less than a fool. A complete, utter fool._ It became something of a mantra as they passed through Fort Drakon in search of the dungeons. Somewhere along the way, emotions had taken control, and foolish logic tangled up with them to make this seem like wisdom when it was pure folly. There was too much risk in this—they'd convinced Alistair, angry beyond reason, to stay behind because without the Warden he was _all they had—_so it made no sense to risk one's self either. One warden would do just as well as the next.

Glancing up at the blood-spattered elf who fought before her and mildly disconcerted that they'd become so accustomed to one another as to make a startlingly good team, Morrigan knew her scowl had faded into a sort of distant confusion and found it difficult to care. They communicated in silent signals, body language and nods, because somewhere along the way this man had become her ally, much as she despised him—the Warden's fault, surely, because when they were together she could see just a bit of what the Warden saw in the lecherous fool. It held little appeal to her, but she... she _understood_.

Which only served to make this all the more pathetic. If not for ridiculous romantic attachments or lust, what purpose did her dedication to the Warden serve? _Why was she here_, fighting alongside a single assassin, to retrieve the Warden who was admittedly preferable for her needs but not inherently _necessary_, seeing as fate had gifted her a spare?

They burst into the dungeons, and Loghain of course was not present, uninterested in the mechanics of torture, only the results—and she winced, steps faltering for a second, not at the overseer's questioning voice trying to drown out the Warden's ragged shouts, but at the Warden's choice of response, saw a similar reaction in Zevran before a cold rage drained his features and the elf simply became _motion_. Why a self-proclaimed atheist would be shouting the Chant of Light in a moment of distress escaped her, but Morrigan supposed, rather darkly, that it was as good a choice of nonsense as the next. They made short work of the torturers and guards, Zevran carving out his vengeance in flesh and blood—she let him have it.

There was still a sort of unnerving calm around the elf as he carefully cut the bindings that held the Warden down, visibly unmoved by his lover's physical state. And the Warden _was_ quite a mess, bloodied and bruised and gasping harshly for breath. But by the look in his eyes he understood what was going on, and took it in stride as best he could considering the situation just moments before.

"Your gear," Zevran said, as if just remembering, and he looked to Morrigan pointedly, then back to the Warden before brushing aside a lock of auburn hair in a tender manner, letting his fingertips brush the Warden's cheek heedless of blood. Then he marched off in search of it, trying every chest and cabinet in the room.

The Warden tried to sit, but clearly lacked either the coordination or the strength at the moment. Morrigan stilled him with a hand, then went rooting about in the torturer's tools for a relatively clean rag. Finding one in the dead man's pockets, she wiped the carefully drawn runes in lyrium from her fellow mage's forehead, knowing them for what they were, then offered him a burst of her own meager healing magic—his would not be returning for a few days after this. That gave him the strength to sit with her help, her support, and it seemed slightly surreal to end up sitting next to him on the torturer's table, he gasping for breath again after the movement and naked and smeared in blood.

"Thank you," Cadryn finally croaked, fine voice worn thready from yelling. "I knew it would be the two of you, but thank you all the same."

"What else was I to do?" Morrigan shrugged, a sort of careless motion, pursing her lips slightly. "We could not simply leave you here at Loghain's mercy."

"You could have. Very easily. But you came anyway." Cadryn leaned in close, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Morrigan's breath caught in her throat for a moment, because for someone so young and often foolish he had a sort of presence that put her at ease, made her feel... _equal_, they were genuinely equals. Comrades. Friends, perhaps, if only she knew what the word meant. Cadryn laid a kiss in her hair, a tender thing, and though she knew his touch likely left sticky blood behind her revulsion was an insignificant little thing compared to the sense of... she didn't have a word for it, because it was too new.

"Elf," she called out, and Zevran looked up at her from across the room, annoyance at the word she chose and concern for her momentary charge plain across his gold-skinned face. "We must get the Warden back to Wynne as soon as possible; these tortures have addled him so he has become prone to random fits of sentimentality. If we are not quick, he will be hugging every guard between here and Eamon's estate."

"I am certain that between the two of us we are sufficient distraction, my dear witch." The roll in his voice on the phrase _between the two of us _and the word _distraction_ and the look in his eyes was _delicious_, a thing to be savored like the choicest bit of meat. She was quite over it, though, by the time Zevran finally found Cadryn's things—some of the more interesting or expensive items missing, but lingering to find them seemed foolish—and they had the Warden passably dressed and armed to make their escape.

Cadryn's strength flagged by the time they reached Eamon's, and he collapsed in the courtyard, Zevran catching him and Morrigan running ahead to call for sufficient muscle. It was a blur of action, of motion and need. And all Wynne required of her that night was a sleeping spell, so bones could be set and wounds could be stitched.

Which left Morrigan in her quarters all evening, pacing nervously by the light of the fat pearl of a moon heavy with thought and emotion that rose at dusk. She dwelt not on the events of the day, or this new found sense of friendship and longing she felt towards Cadryn—they had been there for some time now, she realized, and she had only just noticed.

No, she thought only of the future, of some night now less distant than she would like, of questions to be asked and offers to be made, and though she would not let herself fret overmuch at the alternative, in a moment of weakness Morrigan whispered to the darkness, "Please, let him say _yes_."


	14. Foreign Treasures

Set after chapter 10 of "Chains".

* * *

Cadryn was thoroughly engrossed in penning a missive to Weisshaupt explaining the details of what had happened during the Blight and requesting their directions on how to proceed—that two Warden didn't seem enough, but they had a base and would have some reasonable amount of financial backing. Naturally, he didn't notice Zevran's approach, at least not until the elf leaned over his shoulder, scarcely not touching, to set something on the desk.

The mage immediately knew the delicately painted tin for what it was, a treat sometimes allowed in the Tower, one tenuous connection to the outside world and a taste of foreign places. He grabbed for it eagerly, at the moment heedless of ink-stained fingers, and turned it over slowly. That anything so beautiful could come from the Qunari had once surprised him, but the tins were always painted in such fine strokes with scenes from the growing and preparing of their contents. Popping the lid open, Cadryn took in a deep breath—this was what he had always imagined Par Vollen must smell like, tea and faint citrus, exotic spices and temple incense. It was a ridiculous question he'd never dared to ask Sten, and he didn't want to be disappointed since first-hand experience would likely remain out of his reach.

Cadryn twisted in his chair to look up at the elf. "You didn't have to-"

"But I did," Zevran said, nodding at him as if acknowledging a thanks. "We missed your birthday while marching to Denerim, yes? I am quite late, but it takes some time to find these sorts of things."

"Nobody's-" Cadryn didn't finish the sentence, knowing it would be too close to something Zevran had once told him. His possessions in the Tower had been very few, only necessities, and the earring was the first thing he'd owned that wasn't in some way associated with everyday needs or meant for someone else. This was only his second gift, and the first time anyone had acknowledged his birthday without some extenuating circumstance in a very, very long time. "Thank you." Silly as it was, Cadryn couldn't contain his smile, a sort of quiet elation at the gift. "How did you find out?"

Zevran gave a dismissive wave with one hand, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling briefly. "I have my ways—it is not yours to question, only enjoy."

The mage hesitated just a moment, glancing down at the box in his hand wistfully. "Tea was rare, almost a treat of sorts—its expensive, but some of the more important Enchanters of the Circle had a taste for it. Irving was fond enough of me that I got it from time to time. I would find some quiet place to sit, sometimes share it with Jowan, and privately pretend I was in Par Vollen or Seheron, or even Antiva or Rivain, sitting in the courtyard of some great palace, under a blue sky and a warm breeze, exotic scents on the air, water trickling from a fountain... Its stupid, isn't it?" He gave a nervous laugh, and closed the tin carefully. "I would always berate myself after; such fancies made life in the Tower so much more dull. And such affectations aren't befitting of someone like myself."

Slim, strong fingers tapped just under his chin, pushing his gaze up to look at his exotic lover—everything about the elf was in shades of gold, distant places, his personal musk one of those foreign scents that had slipped into the fantasy since leaving the Tower. "You are not so cold and serious as you want to believe, as you want others to believe. Everyone must allow himself some hope, some small scrap of joy, even in the darkest of places." But that was part of the attraction, wasn't it—they'd each been prisoners in golden cages, and were each exotic to one another, Zevran like sunlight and spice manifest and full of both life and death, Cadryn some forbidden treasure stolen from a gloomy tomb and the gentleman scholar-come-adventurer. They understood each other, had lived under a similar doom, and yet were still foreign in a sense. "And these imaginings will not remain fancies forever, _amore_ It is perhaps unwise for you to visit the Qunari lands, but you need only say the word and I will take you anywhere you desire, Crows and Wardens be damned."

Cadryn reached up to grasp Zevran's forearm, propping his elbow against the back of the chair and leaving a little smudge of ink against golden skin. In the other hand he shook the tin lightly. "Let's try it, then, and we'll plan our first trip."


End file.
